Chapter Text
Over three thousand years ago, the world was separated into two parts: human and non-human. This separation was a war. And there was no bigger war than that between humans and witches. The humans would rob, kill and torture the witches, hoping for just a piece of their power whilst the witches simply tried to raise their children in peace.
And so, when word spread about a witch who had been kidnapped and 'brainwashed' into doing the human's bidding, life came to a crashing halt for anyone who wasn't 'privileged' enough to be born human. In response to the kidnapping, the humans decided to make a curse using their victim.
The curse was a strange one. Anyone who was affected by it was to be immortal until the poison in their veins, implemented by the curse, finally killed off their heart, leading to major organ failure, leading to...well, death. The curse had been implemented millenniums ago, being made by an imprisoned which in hopes to eradicate witches from the Earth entirely. The idea of making them immortal was rather contradictory but, according to the witch who made the curse, it was the only way to create such a curse.
And you had been just so lucky to be one of the first children to be born after the curse was made. With both your parents being magic born, the curse was enforced on you the moment it was made. And so, you lived with it expecting to die at an early age like all your friends. You expected for the skin of your fingertips to turn black the moment your heart began to give up. You expected your veins, starting from the chest, to blacken with death and destruction.
The average lifespan of a cursed witch lasted roughly 18-20 years by death of organ failure. And so, you waited. And you waited. And you waited. And you waited for 3000 years, waiting for the poison to kill you, but it never did. You had realised after 70 years that something was wrong. But what were you meant to do? Your entire coven was already dead. You had no one to go to. And you most certainly couldn't go on with life normally since witches were still incredibly frowned upon, But, what else could you do? You were supposed to be immortal until your heart gave out, there had to be something you could do for the rest of your life.
So, you roamed the Earth for hundreds of years, trying to find somewhere to lay your head and rest, but everywhere was infested with blood-thirsty humans who wanted nothing more than to watch you die. Though, of course, it was their fault you now couldn't.
Over the years, you had lived in a large number of villages and kingdoms, normally renting out a small cottage or room for a few weeks before moving on to the next place. However, as you ran, you realised people's opinions on magic and its uses changing. They began enchanting tools and weapons and began making potions: things that you would have been killed for had it not been for the curse.
So, you found a small village that was a common passing point for adventurers, travellers and whatnot and bought a building. And that building was now your shop. The shop wasn't much. Just a small structure with two rooms, a thin wall with an archway to separate them.
You had lived in the village for over three hundred years now, now owning a small cottage in the centre of a nearby forest that was appropriately named the 'Enchanted Forest' when people found you to be living within it. The villagers knew you were a witch, they sort of had to know at this point. How else would they explain the fact that they remembered you when they were toddlers though they were now in their elder years? Some villagers even used your presence to control their children, telling them that if they run into the forest without an adult that the 'Wicked Witch of the Forest' would find them and make them into stew. It was rather funny seeing some of the children's faces when you walked through the village in your black cloak, the hood covering your face in a black shadow.
Although being a witch nowadays seemed calm and normal, it most certainly was not. Unfortunately, being a witch meant you had practices to complete and ancestors to worship. You had come from a long line of witches, all of which being Gray Witches, meaning you were all drawn towards any type of magic, though the main one being dark magic. And dark magic meant dark and borderline evil ancestors to worship. Each individual is forced to worship their ancestors from a young age and, as the witch's power grows, so does the severity of the rituals to the ancestors. And unsurprisingly, you ended up with a rather rude and destructive line of ancestors who decided that the best way to keep you in check was to throw hundreds of their own tiny voices within your head, each of which voiced their own opinion. Sometimes, they were smart, other times they were damn idiots. But most of the time, they demanded vengeance for their murders.
Every day, you would go into your shop, make potions, enchantment books, rare items and whatnot and prepare for anyone who needed anything. You were a scavenger by nature. And you were also searching for a distraction from the constant yelling within your head. You would have thought that after three thousand years of having them in your head, you would have learned how to tune them out but nope! They always find a way to come back.
You had woken up early today to restock some potions in the shop since a large group of travellers had arrived in your shop the previous day, buying practically the entire place. Today you needed to make a few batches of invisibility potions, instant health potions, swiftness potions and fire resistance potions since you were almost out of those. In the back of the store was a storage room where you had all your brewing stands and ingredients. You were sure you had plenty of golden carrots, fermented spider eyes, glistening melons and magma cream to make enough potions to last you a week.
You were in the front room, sweeping the floor after months of dust and dirt had built up. You didn't often clean the front room since the mess added character to the room but now it was just getting in the way.
The shop wasn't anything special. It was a small dark oak and stone brick room with shelves stocked with hundreds of potions, books and other rare artefacts. Vines were hanging from the walls with symbols, statues and ores tied to them to ward off 'bad omens'. The main window was painted with a tint so barely any light could enter the room to keep the potions out of sunlight. Therefore, you had candles surrounding the room, one every few metres away to light up another area. Sure, it was a fire hazard but it's not like it could kill you anyways. Separating the front room and the backroom was a counter and a wall with a small doorway that was decorated with symbols and little doodles you did when you got bored. In the backroom was a various amount of brewing stands and shelves stocked with potion ingredients that could last you years.
You had just finished sweeping and were about to head to the backroom when you heard the bell chime, indicating someone had entered the store.
Without even looking at them you spoke to the person. "Sorry, I don't open for another two hours".
Normally, you would hear a faint 'sorry' and the person would scutter out of the shop or a panicked voice begin to ramble a sentence with an occasional wince of pain. However, the person spoke back with a very familiar voice. A familiar northern accent.
"Not even for an old man dying at your doorstep?" they laughed, their voice hoarse and choked up, as if they were in intense pain.
The second you heard the accent you spun on your heels. The warm light shone behind the man who wore green robes. A familiar white and green striped hat sat on his head covering a grand head of blonde hair. What caught your attention was his singed wings, the feathers out of place and burnt, the skeleton of it being visible in some places. The sight made you want to use all your power to heal him, but you doubt he would let you. This was none other than Phil, another 'immortal' you had met hundreds of years ago in a small kingdom. He wasn't technically immortal since he could still die, however, it did take a lot of effort.
"Phil! What in good heavens, I- I didn't know you were still alive, oh my lord" you managed to blurt out. You were about to run up and hug the blue-eyed man before he lifted a hand stopping you.
"I might not be if you don't help me" Phil laughed, pointing to his stomach. You followed his gesture with your eyes and noticed a large gash on his side where he was trying to keep pressure. Your eyes widened as you realised what was going on and you rushed over to him, throwing his free arm over your shoulders so you could help him into the backroom where you had a small sofa.
The two of you stumbled into the room as you sat Phil down. You instantly crouched down and lifted his shirt to reveal his wound to assess it. Luckily, it wasn't too deep but if left untreated he would slowly bleed out. What caught your eye was a thin layer of ash that sat on his flesh, some of which seemed to of withered away. You looked up at Phil's face with an eyebrow raised.
"Why in God's name do you have a wound caused by a wither skeleton?" You asked, slightly amused. As Phil began his story, you searched the building for bandages, gauze and stitches.
"Well, I was in the Nether just searching for materials" Phil began "when I came across a fortress. I was in need of some blaze powder, so I entered it but then I came across a Wither Skeleton. Now, I fought off that little shit with ease, but then two of his friends just appeared out of nowhere and that's when I got cut. I quickly built a portal and it led me here. I did drink a health potion before I left but I think that just stopped the withering effect" he explained.
"You're lucky you drank that potion when you did or else half your torso would have withered away and you wouldn't have made it here" you sighed, walking back into the room with a handful of first aid.
You knelt on the floor next to the man and began to clean the wound making sure he won't get an infection. Once that was done, you prepared the stitches. "This might hurt a bit" you warned.
"You know, when I entered, I was expecting potions and magic to heal me, not surprisingly good, traditional medical care" Phil laughed, wincing slightly as you pierced the needle into his skin.
"Well, the people still aren't too comfortable with being treated by straight-up magic, so the potions and extra things, such as stitches, are my only option to the point where it's an instinct. Besides, I haven't done healing magic in is long, who even knows if I can still do it" you explained remembering the injuries people had sustained and their pleading for you to heal it any way other than your magic.
Phil sighed in response as you tied off the thread and finished the stitches. You then got some gauze and soaked it in the little number of regeneration potions you had left before securing it over Phil's wound. You wrapped a bandage around his waist to make sure the gauze stayed in place. "You'll need to change the gauze twice a day and it should heal-"
"Heal in a week if I keep using the potions. I know (Y/n). There's no need to worry" Phil said, cutting you off.
"Sorry, it's a force of habit" you laughed "anyways, was there a reason for your visit, other than the gash on your side". You got up from the floor and walked over to your brewing stands, preparing to make today's batch of potions.
"Originally, there was not. Now, however, that might have changed. You've got many things here that could be very useful to me" Phil began, now taking in his surroundings. "I live pretty far from here, but I've got a friend who wouldn't mind Nether travelling over here. Do you think you could make me like...weekly orders? Like, once a week I'll get a friend to come pick it up. I'll pay as much as you need"
"That depends on what you need. Some things take longer to make then others. I can probably get you most of it on your first order, but the rest you'll have to wait another few weeks before they're at their optimum conditions" you answered, your back turned to him as you began to gather ingredients into the brewing stands.
You didn't get a response after that, so you quickly finished adding some golden carrots into one of the stands before turning around. You watched as Phil attempted to dig through his bag, noticing just how full of completely random and practically useless materials it was. After a few minutes, he huffed before looking back up at you.
"You got any paper and ink? I'll make a list" Phil asked, leaning back into the sofa with a grimace.
You quickly handed him a piece of paper, one side already written on with a new potion recipe you'd been meaning to try, and quill in a small pot of ink. He quickly scrawled onto the paper, only taking a few seconds in between each bullet point to think before he believed he was done.
When he handed you the list, you immediately overlooked it. It seemed rather normal at first: just a list of potions and enchantment books. Though you had to admit, he was ordering a lot of them. It all seemed fine until the very last line. On that line, in his regular, messy handwriting, were the words '2x Totem of Undying'. People almost never asked for these since they knew how rare these totems were. They were also incredibly difficult to make out of magic. You would have to channel the same type of magic as a Vindicator which was extremely exhausting and time-consuming. You weren't even sure if you had any totems in stock. What you did know, however, was that Phil was virtually unkillable if you were a regular person, so why on Earth's name did he need a totem that prevented death? You didn't know and you decided not to question it...for now.
"I think I can get you everything on here, maybe apart from the totems, but I'll have a look around" you announced, looking back up at Phil. He sighed in relief before completely slouching on the sofa. "Now, it's time to catch up"
For the next two or so hours, you made a few hundred potions while Phil explained what he's done in the last millennia and the adventures he's been on, along with some of the friends he's made and how utterly stupid they can be at times. From what you learnt, he had three major friends. The youngest was called Tommy and he was extremely hyperactive and, in a complete coincidence, you knew him. So, you and Phil traded stories of some of the funny and idiotic things the teenager has done. Another one of his friends was called Wilbur, this one you didn't know, but Phil seemed to like this one a lot. Apparently, he was normally a calm and soft-spoken guy, but the moment he's with Tommy, he loses it and becomes a loud teenager all over again. Then, there was the one Phil seemed to like the most, though, he refused to admit it. You were pretty sure he was called Technoblade and was a Piglin hybrid, which you found astonishing. Hybrids were incredibly rare nowadays and seeing a Piglin hybrid in the Overworld was even rarer. Apparently, Technoblade is incredibly smart in mythology and geography and, in Phil's words, was a "God on the battlefield". To say you were intrigued was an understatement.
After a while, you noticed that far too much time had passed and that you were meant to open your shop a while ago.
"Right, Phil, this chat has been lovely but I have a store I need to run" you announced as Phil finished a story. You didn't want to kick him out but there was no way you would be able to work with him here.
"Oh, god, time really has flown, huh? I'll show myself out. I'll send my friend over to collect the order in about four days if that's ok with you" Phil replied, slowly getting up and walking toward the front door of the shop.
"That is perfect. I'll see you around"